


Here I Am

by Ms_E_Vye



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_E_Vye/pseuds/Ms_E_Vye
Summary: "Here I am. Oliver turns my head toward him, chases a water droplet that runs down my chin."





	Here I Am

Hunching over the sink basin, I scrub, futilely, at my face. The water runs cold from the tap, and the rough bar soap smells in a way I can’t define of August and fields and dusty roadways. I can’t say what it is that I want to wash away. I study myself in the mirror, as though I were a stranger. I would look, I think, embarrassingly, even unbearably, happy—except for the water droplets dripping down my face. They remind me of tears.

An almost-crash pulls my eyes to the doorway, as Oliver barrels through. Oliver does nothing quietly. He is, in fact, always so very _loud_ , which shouldn’t be beautiful, but is. He’s my favorite music.

Whatever my face looks like in that moment, Oliver’s breaks open into the kind of smile that has half the town calling him a movie star.

“ _There_ you are,” he says, striding toward me, pulling me back into his body, a hand resting on the bare skin of my stomach.

Here I am. Oliver turns my head toward him, chases a water droplet that runs down my chin.

...

It’s the sort of oppressive late-summer afternoon that begs for a nap, blinds drawn, shutters closed. Instead, I take Oliver to bed. The sheets are as tangled as we left them this morning.

Nothing, I think, will ever feel like the weight of his body on mine, the press of our lips, my hand grasping his thigh.

Oliver does nothing quietly, but he does _try_ , here, with me, muffling his sounds into the pillow, my neck. I wish he wouldn’t; I want to hear him. I bite, petulantly, at his ear, and he draws back, drags a hand free to brush away damp hair from my forehead.

I wonder if he wants to see me better.

...

Later, we doze and read and write. We wash up but leave the sheets a mess. We eat too much and drink too much wine at my parents’ dinner table. And then we fall back into bed.

...

I’m losing track of the days, of _when_ , but we’re sprawled beside the pool. The space between us would be painful if we weren’t working; Oliver’s reviewing his latest manuscript pages, and I’m composing, attempting to bottle up his music and the music of this summer.

When Oliver asks for feedback on his pages or asks what I’m working on, what I’m thinking, he doesn’t just listen to the words. He watches my face. Once, he even reaches over, pushes my sunglasses up into my hairline, and drags a thumb along my cheekbone.

...

“Does this make you happy?” asks Oliver, more than once, eyes focused on me.

...

Much later, during the winter holidays, I can barely hear Oliver, his voice carried, tenuously, by telephone across the Atlantic. I wonder if I would look different to him, now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
